


Quentasta

by EighthAgeArtificer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EighthAgeArtificer/pseuds/EighthAgeArtificer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories from Arda spanning all ages and involving all characters. Some are fluffy, others are pure angst. Nothing truly graphic in any story in this collection. Each chapter is an individual and complete tale unless otherwise noted. AO3 version of the same collection hosted on FF.net</p><p>Characters are added in the order they appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aiwë - Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro has a few unwanted 'eavesdroppers'. Baby birds are quite the lively bunch.

“I am going to kill those birds!”

Nerdanel slowly put a hand to her mouth at the blasphemy; watching her husband for any sign of malicious movement. It took a fine sense to tell when Fëanáro was simply _saying_ something rash from when he was actually _planning_ something rash. It was a sense that she and his father alone seemed to possess. Noting her husbands growing agitation she held her silence; knowing that even a word now would only pour more fuel onto the fire.

Nerdanel looked up at the ceiling; through which the sound of short, persistently urgent chirping could be heard - the cries of the newly hatched calling out for their first meal. And of course Fëanáro had to have heard it even in his forge...

“They don't shut up - they won't be quiet! I can't think! I can't work! Those birds have to go! I will get rid of them even if I have to throw them off the roof myself! What is with these accursed BIRDS!?”

“BIRDS?!”

The two adults froze. Nerdanel grew still with apprehension as she watched her husband turn to face the young golden-haired boy that was now beaming up at him. The elven-princes eye was twitching with frustration but his voice was even as he spoke.

“Yes, Turka. Birds. Baby birds that chirp all hours of the day and night ON MY ROOF.”

Tyelkormo grinned. “So Ti-ti and Ku's eggs hatched! They're probably so proud!”

“Ti-ti...and Ku?”

The small elf nodded. “Yep! They spent a long time building that nest in the eaves and it took so long for them sitting on the eggs that I thought maybe they went bad - but I guess not! How lucky!”

“Yeah...” Fëanáro grumbled. “Lucky.”

“I'm gonna go congratulate them!” Tyelkormo declared, his shrill child's voice echoing in the entryway before he raced outside, skirting the edge of the house with eyes drawn upward and his voice warbling with all the trills and whistles of birdsong.

Nerdanel giggled. “So...about those baby bi-”

_“Do not speak to me of baby birds.”_

* * *

 

Fëanáro looked up at the nest. On the edge was perched a downy ball of feathers newly grown and finally fully formed. First the small creature wheeled its wings in a flurry of unnecessary exuberance, the ungainly motions eventually smoothing into controlled rhythm. Then it sat a moment and stared at the horizon. Another moment of wheeling wings followed. Then with quick motions it preened, teasing individual feathers gently through it's beak.

“GET ON WITH IT!!!” The elf finally screamed, golden eyes flaring with anger.

“Squaaaaaark!!” The bird wheeled it's wings in a flurry of terror, lost it's balance and fell out of the nest. And a moment before it was too late it's wings locked into a glide even as the creature chattered in disorganized high-pitched tones. A correspondingly tiny cloud of dust raised where it landed and for a while it sat in the dirt, twitching it's head and shoulders from side to side with watchful energy. With far more grace than their hatchling a pair glided to the rescue, comforting their offspring with clicks and croons until it finally stood again. Flapping vigorously it at last pulled itself into the air for a short flight, it's parents trailing behind it as they flew off across the field.

Fëanáro sighed. “That's better.”

By next spring Fëanáro had added bird-proof gutters and eaves to his list of inventions; much to the confusion of many of his elven kin.


	2. An off-key Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short story in which Mairon is getting a little frustrated with this 'single' business. Set in Almaren.

He trudged down the well worn path, moving further away from lantern-lit streets.

And when he had come out into the country he moved swiftly as a spirit free of form. But a shadow flickered amid the starlight and he once again resumed a solid shape, staring up into the silvery night at the flutter of great leathery wings as a quick flying form wheeled overhead. With a sigh he continued his journey on foot.

“So...” A soft voice asked from high above. “How did it go?”

“Hmph.” Mairon responded, his hood momentarily obscuring his face from where Thuringwethil was perched.

“Hmph? Oh my...”

For a while they continued under the rippling lights high above, silver bells swaying in the soft wind from. Now and then Mairon would cast a glance upward to see if he was still being followed, and each time the shadow of great wings reassured him. The level plain was wide and as flat as a board, they had a long way toward home yet to go. From where he was Mairon could see the towering mountains on all four horizons, and looking back he could see the lights of the city - the only city in Arda - Almaren. Yet the light gave him little joy that evening as he wallowed in bitter thoughts and kept silent company with his friend. For Mairon felt sick at heart.

Admirable.

It's what they say, but what does it matter? All these long centuries nothing has changed at all. For many among the Ainur praised the works of Mairon - chief among Aule's apprentices and strongest among the Maia. Much of his time was spent crafting some beautiful thing; a shining trinket, a useful tool, or some thing of whimsy. Each time he was praised for his cunning and skill. And yet...it seemed there was a veil between himself and his Ainur kin.

'Admirable' he was. But to what end? His works might buy a fleeting moment of joy or approval, but soon enough he - the creator - was forgotten, even after what he wrought continued to be heralded as magnificent. And if asked to create something of value he would have a Maia or a Vala's rapt attention. But when the work was done it was as if he had fulfilled his sole purpose and that to ask for more would be vain. The other maia in Aule's keeping would feast with some of their clients, and many were popular and well known through the land. They would travel to the corners of their small domain and see the wonders of Arda. Yet it seemed to Mairon that he was misunderstood. For when he opened his mouth to speak the words that were heard were what others desired to hear, not what had been spoken. Worse yet was the distance he knew many kept out of fear.

“You did not answer my question.” Thuringwethil spoke at last, and dropping from the sky she took a form more pleasing for walking, yet her arms remained folded as great wings draped around her like a cloak. “What did she say when you asked?”

Mairon gave a bitter smile, eyes searching for their home. “She said I was 'admirable' but not her type.”

“is that not-”

“What the last three said as well? Yes, almost to the letter.”

“Why?”

On the thin grass Mairon stood, peering up into the starry heavens. “You're asking the wrong person Thû...if I knew I'd be back in Almaren having the time of my life, you know, having fun with my peers.”

Mairon paused here with a heavy sigh and kicked a stray jewel along the path. It was of little consequence, glittering like pale fire in the silvery glow of starlight - but the way was strewn with millions of them, so many that the road cut a swath like shimmering starlight through a sea of gently waving grasses. Silence fell between them for a long time as the walls of their home loomed ever larger.

“I guess...I _would_ be having fun with my peers if I _had_ any.”

“Your coworkers?”

“But that's just it!” Mairon growled. “I don't work with them! I _oversee_ them. Big difference. They don't see me as someone they can 'hang out' with, I'm basically like their boss. And even the ones that don't feel that way act like they're afraid to even talk to me. I'm not deaf...I can hear some of what's being said when I'm not around.”

Thuringwethil fluttered her wings, just the slightest hint of defensiveness. “Is it anything bad?”

To her surprise her friend laughed. “No. That's just it. No one has anything BAD to say about me. Not a single word. But I know there are a lot of maia who don't like me just because of that.”

“Jealous.” She whispered.

“It's amazing how petty immortal spirits can be sometimes...” Mairon commented with a wry smirk, eyes lowered to the jemstone path. “I almost feel like...maybe I should be less perfect. If I remembered to do it I'm sure I could mess something up, not enough to get in trouble but enough to show a flaw now and then. I could work less hard or something-”

Now Thuringwethil stopped in front of him, her eyes as dark as the void set in a kind and beautiful face. “You would hold yourself back to shield yourself from their jealousy? Running from a competition is not in your nature.”

“But neither is being alone forever!” The maia across from him gave a soft pout and Mairon with all the sheepishness of a child, reached out and held her gently by the shoulders, touching his forehead to hers. “You know what I mean. You're more like my sister than anything else...though Ilúvater never named us as such.”

“And I feel like as a big sister you owe it to me to listen.”

“Big sister?” He laughed. “Oh no - I'm not going to be the mischievous little brother.”

“Why not? We both know I'm the brains of this operation.”

Laughing, the two continued their walk, striding with considerable ease up to the high walled fence around the great abode and passing into a great courtyard.

“It's just that...well...I can't really describe what I'm feeling. I never used to think about anything like this - I was content. But this Fana thing is really throwing me off.” With a scowl Mairon regarded his own lithe form, frowning at the feeling of his hair on his cheeks and the coolness of silk that wrapped about him. The prickles from the circlet and ear-cuffs he wore were in his mind. “I don't know why they insist on going around with these 'bodies' all the time! What was so bad about being unhoused?”

“An unhoused spirit can't make jewelry Mairon.”

“Maybe I don't want to make jewelry anymore! That's another thing- it seems like making trinkets is all we ever do. I want to make something useful.”

Thuringwethil gave a silent nod as she pushed open the door. “Be that as it may, think on it tomorrow.”

At first Mairon looked as if he might argue; but with only a stern glance all dissent was stifled and he nodded in agreement. “Sure. I'll rest on it.”

And he did, but rest did not make things any better.

_I don't get it. I just don't understand._

Staring out across Almaren from one of the high balconies of Aule's forge the maia took a momentary break from the toil of his profession. That day had been rather successful in that he'd managed to make a most beautiful carcanet - one glittering like starlight - for no less than Varda herself; at Manwe's request. Oh everyone had 'ooh'd and 'aah'd over it like always and the Valar showered him with praise. Even Curumo had said something nice, despite being Mairons only real competition and chiefest rival for Aule's attention. But...well...it could have gone better...

“You're moping. Why?”

Mairon turned to look at the far larger form beside him, leaning against the beautifully carved alabaster rail in a gesture of what might have been boredom. But Kosomot's eyes flashed with too much energy to ever seem truly at rest or without thought. Seeing the maia brought a smile to his lips, for if anyone understood him it was Kosomot.

“I'm moping because it's the absolute last option left to me. I've used up all the other ones.”

“Then this is the worst plan ever if your fail-safe is 'mope'.” Kosomot snorted. A moment later he nudged the maia and in a lowered voice he asked; “So...you didn't tell me why. You're not the type to wallow in pity - at least not without a bottle nearby.”

At this Mairon gave a fleeting smile. “It's complicated. It's this whole 'Ainur pairing' thing. I don't understand it.”

“Oh really?” Kosomot asked, turning to place his back on the rail. In the shimmering mixed light of silver and gold his eyes glinted in an unearthly way as they reflected both in equal measure. “So you're lonely. You want romance. Thats' okay, I know you like to worry about absolutely everything but I'm sure you'll find someone eventually. Give it time.”

Mairon frowned. “That's all I've ever had to give - time. And I'm tired of waiting. I've met nearly every Ainur there is and I haven't found my 'duet' yet. I'm starting to think that maybe...maybe I was created without one.” The flame maiar stood together on the balcony a long time before either spoke again. It was Mairon who broke the silence.

“Within each Ainur is a piece of the Great Theme. And each part has it's compliment in the work of the whole. These complimentary parts are the destined 'duet'. As far as we can tell Ilúvater created Ainur mostly as 'sets' or 'pairs' and the only trick was finding the other half of our duet. Varda of Light and Manwe of Air, Yavanna of growing things and Aule of that which does not grow.”

“And...?” Kosomot inquired as he loomed over the rail like some giant from another world, seeming mildly bored with the whole discussion. With a grunt Mairon turned around with his back to the rail, crossing his arms and flicking coppery-blond hair over his shoulder.

“Talking to Arien had to have been the hardest thing I've ever done in my whole existence up until that point. I've been wanting to just have a little time with her since we got here! But then fires...and general destruction...well; Melkor sort of happened and then everyone was so busy putting things back together that any thoughts of finding my 'duet' went out the window. Then just as I was going to try again...well; MELKOR sort of happened again and the whole host raced off to drag him back to Almaren and failed.”

“I'm seeing a theme here-”

“And I've practically been walking on air all morning because of that circlet I made for Varda and it got me thinking about this 'duet' thing again so I finally finally gathered up enough courage to talk to this elusive but totally beautiful maia I've liked since before we even left the Halls of Time.”

Here he paused and put his head in his hands. Mairon was no stranger to the complicated dance of finding 'the one' - someone who complimented his personality and allowed him to be his utmost. For though it was often on their minds but rarely talked about the Ainur were all driven to find their 'other half'. Not for the same reasons as the Olvar or Kelvar that Yavanna watched over but for the sake mostly of their own spirits.

“And then I finally get Arien alone and try to talk to her and _guess_ who shows the hell right up?”

“You're gonna tell me...”

“ _Melkor!_ That asshole just kept hitting on Arien the whole time until she finally got mad and flared off and then he starts trying to talk to me!”

Kosomot quirked a salacious grin. “Sooo...?”

Mairon crossed his arms and pouted. “I threw a fireball at his face.”

Kosomot laughed.

 

* * *

 

Sitting behind his desk Mairon was desperately trying focus above the sounds of thousands of chattering orcs while they filed past his office in a near un-ending succession. It was only when two heavily cloven feet landed unceremoniously on his desk dripping hot tar and sputtering flame that he even looked up.

Leveling a glare at the balrog he sighed. “Yes Kosomot?”

The Lord of the Balrogs grinned. “Soo...when is the wedding?”


	3. Elacalca - Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Finwe brings turmoil to the royal family of the Noldor but Tyelpe finds himself unexpectedly alone with his grief.

The mansions of the Ñoldor were quiet.

No song, no lilting melody - not even the softest twang of harp or breathy moan of lute carrying sorrowful lament echoed through the cavernous marble halls of the castle in Tirion. In the dark the dim radiance of condensed dew of Telperion gave a weak but steady glow; yet even that brilliance was tarnished - for without being replenished by the tree from whence it came the light had slowly began to die. All over Valinor thousands of little lanterns weakened and failed while the corrupted night grew deeper yet.

Night. Never before had they feared the dark. They had spent so many happy and carefree years in the holy light of the Valar that the realm of shadow and shade held terrors before unimagined by the Eldar. The Long Night - that was what they were calling it now. Night without Dawn, The Deepening Dark. At least the Vanyar still sang, sorrowful as it was. Such poetic names were their creation. The Ñoldor just called it ' The Night'.

Tyelperinquar called it hell.

Mingled light gave a soft glow to the bedroom. Amid the soft and white light of the recessed sconces of his room Tyelpë sat before a long mirror framed with pale beige candles that gave a flickering golden glow. Often had he used it in happier days, happier times. Now in the combined light of drying sap and burning wax he could hardly stand to look at his own reflection.

Every flash of his eyes, every tilt of his head, every ripple of dark hair was painful and finally gathering the courage to look full into his own image he had to fight back the tears welling in his eyes as the low chanting litany of a well-worn phrase rattled noisily in his mind.

_You look just like Finwë._

Oh how proud he had first been to hear those words in his bright youth, praise that tumbled from the mouths of his uncles and whispered in his wake as he passed through the bejeweled streets of Tirion or among the pearled walkways of Alqualondë. How often as even a young elf had he toddled along his great-grandfather, a laughing, dancing shadow - a small shard from a brilliant jewel holding all the promise of it's forbearer. What joy he had felt when Finwë had coddled him, braiding and brushing the long deep brown locks until they shone and glistened. A wealth of pins, clips, combs Tyelpë held in horde crafted by Curufinwë and Fëanor or gifted to him from the nobility of Aman. For a while it had become ridiculous - every week someone had given him some precious work, and of course Fëanor _had_ to give him something far more spectacular anytime he saw another's work adorning his grandsons hair.

“ _I stopped wearing other jewelry long ago.” Finwë had laughed with Tyelpë. “He'll never let anyone else outdo him, you know how your grandfather can be.”_

Tyelpë knew all too well.

For a moment Tyelpës hand stilled, the brush - a work of finely wrought silver and boars bristles, glistening with the bright glint of diamonds that gave a soft bluish luminescence in the darkened room - he held poised in the air even as his eyes shifted to his right. By the door of his room stood a wooden folding tray upon which was a series of plates of varying sizes, each crowned with a richly embossed dome. The meal had gone cold more than an hour ago, abandoned where it had been set by one of the servants. In another few hours it might be replaced by another, the pattern repeated for yet another day - for days uncounted.

Tyelpe's best estimation was that he hadn't left his room for around three weeks. Hidden in his room he could reveal himself without need for layers of heavy fabric and the secrecy of swift, unobtrusive movement.

A pang of bitterness filled him at his self-imposed imprisonment. His family wasn't in this room, they were _out there_ \- among their kin and united in their unimaginable grief while Tyelpë cloistered himself away and wept in the shadows. He wasn't sure what stung more, that he'd felt the need to hide himself away from the world or that not once, in three long weeks, had any bothered to come looking for him.

_You look just like Finwë._

Hot tears pricked and stung at his eyes and Tyelpë blinked them back. Taking a few deep breaths he slowly set down the brush on the vanity beside a constellation of various rings. Slowly bare fingers teased at the long tresses, gently combing through them in slow contemplation. His hair was nearly as long as his great-grandfathers had been. _Had._ When did they start using that word to refer to him? Looking down at the rippling locks Tyelpës mind wandered to the day it had all ended, the day the light had gone out forever.

 

He had been in Alqualondë that day with his mother. She hadn't liked the idea of him moving to the forbidding north within the shadow of the towering Pelori and had begged and pleaded for Tyelpë not to go with his father into exile. She saw no reason that her son should be bound to the poor decisions of his grandfather - for who as of late she had acquired a distinct disgust. After lengthy debate and more heated conversations than he cared to recall an agreement had been reached, some time spent in Formenos, some in Alqualondë and though she loathed it she consented.

 That day he had ridden as hard as he could to Formenos, hard on the heels of his grandfather. Fëanors leaving of Tirion hadn't exactly been secret - for he had run with all haste to the stables the moment the herald bearing the terrible news of the attack on Formenos had spoken his fell message. Tyelpë had seen Fëanor thunder through the western gate of the city, his horse kicking up plumes of sparkling dust across the plains. Clad as he was in his thick robes of embroidered silk and damask Tyelpë had followed with all haste. The mantle gave to his mother at the great hall - the outer robes were left with the stable-master. On a pale brindled mare known for her speed he followed hard in Fëanors wake.

Even still, with a slower horse and a later start he knew well enough that he would arrive behind his grandfather. The miles stretched long before him in the uncertain darkness and before long Fëanors mount was far out of sight - leaving Tyelpë to ride alone through the night. Ever he urged his horse to greater speed as at the edges of his sight he imagined foul things speeding across the plains, lurking in the shadows of clustered trees under the pale starlight. Approaching Formenos, beneath the roots of the Pelori Tyelpë found to his dismay that the shadows here deepened in places to a near unimaginable blackness - darker than night, inky and lifeless as the void and in the cold north wind he shivered. Riding up the twisting arches of stone bridges that climbed their way into the mountains at last Tyelpë came to the high gate of the northern stronghold of the Ñoldor and found it changed beyond all recognition.

Webs of gloom stretched along the surrounding peaks with an unnatural dark sorcery that drew all light that crossed it into oblivion. The stones leading into the center court were cracked as if the weight of immense pillars, spear-tipped and stronger than iron had come crashing down upon them. Braziers blazing red-gold into the night cast their ruddy light high up the stone faces and gave the entire entry a dark malevolence as they led deeper into the mountain like some broken piece of Utumno itself had landed within the confines of the blessed realm. Heart pounding in his chest Tyelpë ignored the ripples of fear that pulsed through him and carefully avoiding the light-sucking webs he dismounted and led the horse forward. Shortly he was met by one of the armed guards who remained - the still shaken and terrified elf eagerly taking his mount, grateful for any distraction. Here he learned that Fëanor was already inside with his uncles and father. Softly thanking the guard Tyelpë strode towards the broken doors of Formenos - grandly gilded oaken doors that now lie scorched upon the mosaic stair. And he shuddered as he turned his eyes to those steps saw some dark stain upon the colored glass and pale stone.

The winding corridors he had known for decades were now hauntingly unfamiliar. Beneath his feet cracked the shards of emeralds, pearls, sapphires; the precious stones grinding into powder with each cautious step. Tapestries woven by Míriel herself in happier days lie ripped and trampled callously upon the floor or fluttered in tatters from their bracketed mounts and shards of golden-veined pottery littered the way ahead. Tyelpë could hear voices at the end of the hall and towards this he directed himself, drawn in towards the crackle of torches until he found himself standing in the gaping doorway of the large gathering room. The faces of his family turned upon him one by one as he entered, regarding him with some strange emotion that he had never before seen upon them - yet one he suspected he knew all too well himself now.

Tyelpë wanted to speak, to ask, but words caught in his throat and he could only stare in silence. Then Fëanor turned to him and there was something unhinged in his eyes - wide and wild as they were. Yet for a moment they cleared and Fëanor began to rise - but then his face crumpled, his body sank, and a loud keening wail ripped through the room, resounding shrilly from the vaulted ceilings and sent piercing fear through Tyelpë that set him stumbling back into the darkened hall with his heart hammering in his chest. From a far corner a dark clad elf quickly approached and before Tyelpë could question it his father had ushered him a little down the way. For a moment they stood without speaking, the unearthly keening of Fëanor echoing dully in their ears.

“The messenger...so you know of what's happened?” Curufinwe asked hesitantly. Tyelpë nodded, looking first to the door, then to his father and back to the door. Perhaps if he could just stop shaking it would be easier, maybe if he kept calm he would wake in the morning to the glory of the trees and the love of his great-grandfather. But Tyelpë knew deep in his core that such hope was vain.

With slow, careful words he replied; “They told us the stronghold had been attacked. That...”

It was too much to speak of, and tears spoke instead of words as they fell from Tyelpës reddened eyes. For a long time Curufinwë and his son stood in the darkened hall, the father holding his only son. After an eerie silence had descended upon the house Curufinwë spoke again, lifting Tyelpës face so that he might look him in the eyes.

“You know that he has gone to the halls of Mandos. Yet it is not only our parting but the manner of it that is most cruel. We were careful to hide from father what we did not wish him to see - to lay eyes on grandfather in such a state would surely have broken him. Some devilry of Melkor was surely at work here today, for he was near unrecognizable when we found him - as if he'd been burned."

Curufinwë fell silent for a time, stroking his sons hands.

“You...look like Finwë. So much so. It may be best if you do not see your grandfather for a while - just for a bit until he can come to terms with what has happened.”

Any protest Tyelpë may have had died under the imploring gaze of his father and he could only nod mutely in consent.

That had been a month ago.

 Now sitting alone in a darkened bower Tyelpë closed his eyes against the night. For fear of Fëanors fragile mind he had kept to himself while his father and uncles stayed by their patriarchs side all hours of the day and night. During the funeral he had remained alone, hooded and cloaked in black velvet, long hair bound and hidden under layers of fabric. Yet in the end even that had not been enough. For the Ñoldor who saw him as they passed gazed upon him with the same grieved expression before turning away with haunting whispers.

“ _He looks just like Finwë.”_

 The first of his tears fell like a gentle rain onto the backs of his clenched fists knotted on his lap. Tyelpë knew couldn't hide in darkness forever, separated from his kin. But he couldn't face them like this either.

With shaking hand he reached for an elaborate blade resting on the edge of the dresser, glinting palely in the dim light. The fingers on his right hand tangled through his hair wistfully for a moment, then in a deft motion the locks were twisted into a tight cord.

  _If I don't look like great-grandfather anymore...then there's no problem..._

Tyelpës breath hitched a moment and he fought against the pounding in his heart and in his head. Family was more important - it was the most important thing. This was a small enough price to pay.

But his hand on the knife couldn't stop shaking as it lightly rested against the bundled strands and his mind raced with visions of a bright past now withered and dead as leaves in winter; a fading light in the darkness. With a deep breath he steeled himself, grip tightening as he prepared to sever the past that clung to him in heavy locks. 

 “Don't.”

Strong hands stayed him and a warm breath tickled at his neck. Slowly those arms drew him in to a warm embrace, his back pressed against a broad chest as the knife was pried from his hands and set out of his reach. The words in his ear echoed again through a voice cracked with grief.

“ _Please_ don't.”

The thin misting of tears preluded a downpour. Restraints built against the flood burst and Tyelpë wailed out long held grief while Fëanor gently wrapped his arms about his grandson, the banished king for now a shaky bulwark against the storms to come.

 


	4. Long live the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amid the changing of the age Artanáro, known in history as the great Noldorin King Gil-Galad, decides to have a heart to heart with Tyelpërinquar on the nature of the crown.

Tallow candles sputtered and flickered deep into their molten lakes when at last Artanáro joined him. From the darkness of the hall into the comfort of a hearth-warmed room the young king strode quickly, his heavy cowl billowing like a mantle of midnight in his wake, shimmering as it was with the glint of crystalline stars upon its velvety background. Artanáro's hood he threw back and for a moment the guest stood standing rigidly while he regarded the elf who calmly poured him a glass of mulled wine. From his close proximity he could nearly feel the heated brews warmth as it sent curling wisps of white above it to laden the air with it's spiced aroma.

“You're late.” Celebrimbor commented dryly, setting the carafe back onto the carven wood table.

“You knew I would come?” Artanáro accused, voice hinting at indignation though his expression softened as the warmed mug met his chilled hands. He gazed into the swirling liquid, the ripples distorting his face until only a fall of dark hair crowned with a silvery glint could be distinguished.

His thoughts were as turbulent as his drink and calmed just as slowly. For a while he stood mute, alternately drawing deep droughts of wine and staring at the fire crackling golden behind a screen of colored glass - his mind lulled by the dancing rainbow hues upon the hearthstone.

At last he sighed.

“Why did you tell Celeborn and Galadriel to leave?” Artanáro asked in a quiet voice resounding with authority. “And why did you allow this - 'Annatar' to stay?”

Now truly looking upon Celebrimbor for the first time he noted the weariness of ages etched in an ever-young face. Grief had left its mark and idly the thought flitted through Artanáros mind that in some dark way it suited the scion of Fëanor. Grief had found much fertile soil in that line...a line from which he himself was only partly removed.

“There was no need for you to come all this way to ask _that_ , Náro. A carrier pigeon would have given you the same result - though perhaps with less depth. Which altogether may have been better...”

“I have heard more than enough to justify the journey.” Artanaro replied, his tone growing cold. “I have heard how you ordered Galadriel to depart. How you undermined her authority - she is your elder and the daughter of Finarfin! On what authority did you have her leave?”

A subtle quirk of Celebrimbors brow brought Artanáro to a halt as the elder elf whispered. “My _own._ ”

For a moment Artanáro held his tongue, his argument thrown rudely into a wall that had appeared from nowhere. Yet before he could challenge it Celebrimbor spoke again.

“It was decided _between_ us that she should go.”

“Why would she agree to leave?”

Celebrimbor readjusted himself with a grace that was almost painful to behold and the young king wondered if he might some day possess such easy regality in his old age. Yet Celebrimbors eyes gleamed with an unearthly light filled with dark mischief.

“To unravel a very curious mystery.”

With this bait Celebrimbor waved one hand to indicate the couch beside him and after a stiff nod Artanáro took a seat, sinking into the deep downy cushions with the realization of just how exhausted he was after the long hard ride from Lindon. This had been a conversation nearly a month in the making - it had best be good.

“You're on the hunt of something if I know that look.” Artanáro commented and his answer was a self-satisfied smirk.

“Indeed. Yet breathe not a word of this or our ruse will be in vain.”

Here Celebrimbor paused, head up and alert as he listened and sensed for any presence that might yet intrude upon them. Once he was satisfied of their seclusion he spoke hurriedly and in a whisper so low Artanáro scarcely heard it even with his sensitive ears.

“You are right to distrust Annatar. I was doubtful but now that I have met him I know of what you spoke. Galadriel and Celeborn are of like mind - this maia is up to no good.”

“Then why is he staying and not Galadriel?”

“Because a _maia_ he is, though a foul one. And _that_ raises many questions that need answers.” Celebrimbor stated gravely. “Few maia have ever brought harm to us - but of those in Aule's service one in particular is well known for his malevolence. Galadriel and even I spent many long centuries in Aule's halls - yet never have we met this 'Annatar'. Nor will he speak his true name to us.”

What chill had been driven from Artanáro in the warmth of Celebrimbors study returned a thousandfold as the implications of this riddle became clear. Nearly breathless he was when he spoke;

“So has our enemy _returned_? An agent of our great foe? Whom does this Annatar serve?”

With a bitter growl Celebrimbor whispered. “I have asked him that directly, and to this he said _“truly none but myself - for of my own will I am here to assist.”_ and if that be the only truth he has so far spoken then our straits are dire indeed.”

Artanáro set his cup down, his trembling hands unable to bear its weight any longer. No sound but the pained hitch of breath in his tightened chest could be heard; yet in a second he lifted his face to look at Celebrimbor.

“Please...please send him away.” The young king whispered, fear rasping his voice. “I don't want him to stay here with you - you can't put _yourself_ at risk like this!”

Gentle hands reached for his and Artanáro failed to hide the shudder that rippled through him.

“No! No, you can't let _him_ stay if he truly is our enemy! Cast him out!”

“Artanáro...” Celebrimbor whispered, his voice steady and calm. With his free hand the Noldo gently stroked the younger elfs cheek, fingers running with tender care over the dampened flesh.

“Already my people have begun taking council with him. Already strange rings of great power have begun to be forged. I can not command them to stop without driving them underground, and then I would be blind as to what they have crafted. Only by allowing them this folly can I keep an eagles eye on their works - and his.”

Slowly the comforting hand slid from Artanáro's face.

“I have a plan. For there is powerful magic at work here - magic that can only be countered by it's equal. The smiths working with Annatar have divulged the spells woven into the rings to me - I believe that with what strength is in me I can craft rings to counter their strength. Rings that will hold those lesser at bay, and by this their evil may be checked.”

A dullness came over Artanáro. The familiar set of Celebrimbors jaw told Artanáro there would be no dissuasion. In that moment Artanáro remembered everything he had ever heard of the line of Fëanor and their renown stubbornness in adversity. He could only hope their renown curse would not reveal itself as well. Yet as he gazed upon this noble figure, an elf born before either sun or moon, raised in the sacred light of Aman and carrying it's radiance still in his star-gray eyes, he feared for the day that light might fade. Few things in the world were still pure, untouched by evil.

All at once Artanáro pulled away.

“I feel...” He gave a short, rueful laugh. “Like a fawn that has not got it's legs yet. I'm still spotted and weak, trying as best I can to toddle after my elders, tripping over my own feet.”

Looking up he forced the tears hard from deep blue eyes, for all his royal trappings appearing childlike and frail.

“I...can't do this on my own. I'm not that strong...I know that the Ñoldor look up to me and want, _need_ a strong king. But this...this silence is killing me! Yet if you will not reveal the truth then neither will I. But of this task - if it must be done then let it be done by _me_ \- if one of us must fall it _cannot,_ _should not_ be you.”

Celebrimbor gave a heavy sigh but what words he might have spoken were broken by the flash of movement from Artanáro as the elf whirled from his chair to kneel before Celebrimbor, hands grasping the elder elfs in an unspoken prayer even as his forehead rested heavily on his knees.

“Please... _please_ do not risk yourself! Please...if _he_ finds out...if _he_ suspects who you are or tells the dark lord of your station...if he really is of the enemy he'll _kill_ you if he learns of it...”

In the fading candlelight Artanáro shuddered to think of what horror the future might hold. War, terror and despair had been their lot for so long now that they scarcely remembered what joy felt like...and now just as goodness had returned evil had begun worming it's dark tendrils about them once more. Celebrimbor had been with him in Nargothrond, had been lost for many years and found again in the harbors of Sirion. It was Celebrimbor who had gathered the scattered Noldor and with a grace discordant with his heritage had guided their people for a hundred chaotic years between the fall of Gondolin and the sinking of Beleriand.

It was Celebrimbor who had set Artanaro upon the Noldor throne and crowned him king.

“...Náro.”

Slowly Artanáro felt his head lifted and drawn upward to meet the shimmering starlight of Celebrimbors eyes.

“ _You_ have been entrusted with Lindon and it grows peaceful and prosperous under your hand. You are stronger than you imagine yourself to be...and far more noble than you realize. It is not often that a heavy crown is paired with a kind heart. You are no fawn but a Lord of the world. Believe in yourself, as _I_ believe in you.”

Those words echoed in his ears and Artanáro wished that he would hear them always, like a mantra to join his fractured mind. Slowly he stood, disheartened by Celebrimbors resolve. His departure was far overdue, and the ride to Lindon would be long.

“You...will be careful?” He questioned.

“As careful as I can.” Celebrimbor replied, rising as well. “You take care of yourself, and our people. I will handle business here.”

Artanáro turned away, heaviness echoing in his footsteps. Yet he turned a moment later.

“If you ask it of me...that our places be exchanged...yet I know the answer...”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Celebrimbors lips, working it's way inward until a bitter laugh dissolved it. “You are in the spring of your long life, and many centuries under both stars and moon have I seen. I would not have the realm of 'Gil-Galad - fairest of Elven-Kings' fail while I draw breath.”

With a gentle blush upon his face Artanáro bowed and his eyes from their lowered vantage regarded the sole adornment Celebrimbor eternally wore; a glinting golden ring upon his right hand emblazoned with diamond and crowned with silver.

“Take care of yourself, my King.”

Celebrimbor gave the slightest of bows in return. “And you as well, Artanáro.”

With the younger king gone the true severity of the situation returned to embrace Celebrimbor in its cloying miasma. Ominous had been the tidings coming to Eregion of late - of beasts of rage and bitter hate creeping into the forests of the world once more. And though Annatar spoke kind and wise words he sought ever to ingratiate himself to Celebrimbor, ever seeking to lure him in with glimpses of power and temptations of darker pleasures. No, it had not gone unnoticed by Celebrimbor though he feigned innocence. Evil was _indeed_ awake.

If all they feared came to pass, if the enemy in their midst was an agent of Mordor hidden beneath a sweet veil...then indeed his first target would be any bearing the crown of the Ñoldor, and not least of all their High King. While such a simple ruse may blind their people to the truth surely the cruel doom upon Finwë's house would not be so easily deceived.

Celebrimbor cast his eyes right to a heavy oaken chest that never opened, keeping within it's darkness a finely silver crown carefully hid. Weary with the weight of that ancient curse Celebrimbor poured another drink and as the spiced wines scent rose to tease him his face was loosened its anger at the bitter draught poured for the Noldorin Kings in their exile.

“My waltzing with this 'Annatar' is surely above all dangers I have yet faced. Dearest Náro...I would have you live a little longer, for the life of a High King is a _short_ thing indeed.”

 


	5. By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A former thrall of Morgoth finds healing through an unexpected change of scene when Fingon sends him to Himring.

“This is not a punishment Rossthôn!”

A well suppressed shudder rippled through the elf and he turned his head aside, staring at a happy arrangement of seasonal greenery - bright sprigs of pine bound to holly with joyous ribbons of gold and crimson. When the unwelcome fluttering in his stomach had ceased the elf turned to face his lord once more, a dark haired Noldo before him sitting on a throne carven of fine redwood draped in luxurious woolen blankets against the chill that seemed ever to pervade the fortress even in the high days of summer.

It had been summer when he had first strayed into Fingons territory, worn and weary with the enemy surely on his heels. In Dor Lómin he had been fed, clothed, _safe_ for the first time in his memory. All else that he might have remembered before the mines of Angband had been thoroughly stripped from him; the only thing that remained was his name - the name he had cherished through days of mind-numbing repetition in sunken caverns deep in the roiling earth. The name that had been with him through every slurred insult, every crack of the whip simply because it had been _his_ \- the one thing he could not let be taken away.

Standing in Fingons hall felt like a strange dream and for a moment the elf entertained the thought that he might awaken to the sound of a clanging brazen gong sounding it's alarm scarcely louder than the black curses of the orcs.

“Rossthôn...” Fingon began again, his voice far softer this time though his face was etched with weariness. “...I have thought long about this. It is for your good.”

A slow panic began to build in the elf and his mind whirled over the events of the preceding days; searching desperately for anything that may have hinted that his lord was displeased. Unease settled deep in his stomach and all his will was bent on standing still instead of falling prostrate to the ground murmuring pleas of forgiveness as instinct now screamed for him to do.

“My lord...” He began, fighting the storm rising within. “...if there is anything I have done, anything at all-”

“-listen to me, you are _not_ in trouble-”

“Surely I have done _something_!” The elf cried out, the outburst startling Fingon and drawing sudden, curious stares from the hall. “You're sending me away and you won't even tell me _why_! Tell me why you don't want me here anymore!”

Fingon stood from his throne, moving quickly forward but the elf's sudden recoil checked his speed. Still as stone the elf-lord calmed his own pounding heart, knowing full well that any over-reaction in his own emotion would be amplified in the former-thrall now staring at him with wide and cautious eyes. With a deep sigh Fingon moved - far slower this time - towards the other elf.

“I am not mad at you. And I am not displeased. I am doing this because I am concerned for you Rossthôn; I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” Came the reply, flat as a sour note in the hush of the wide hall. At the unconvincing assurance Fingon shook his head, flashes of gold glinting in the firelight.

“No. No you're not. It's...too much isn't it? I know you're brave, I know you're trying. But you can't fake happiness Rossthôn.”

Now standing within arms reach Fingon set a knowing gaze upon his vassal, dark gray eyes searching for any sign of acknowledgement of the truth he spoke.

“Some things you can't force. You can't pretend to be something you're not - not forever. Dor Lómin is open to any who desire a world free of evil, however; it is filled with elves who do not truly comprehend what it is they fight. Sometimes they don't even comprehend those who do.”

It was all too clear now to the elf who stood with a knot in his silent throat, listening to the declarations of his lord.

“The other day...I'm sorry. She startled me...I didn't mean to yell. Is...is this because I yelled at her? I apologized right away - surely she heard me!”

Fingon shook his head. “It's not just yesterday Rossthôn. Though; yes, that is part of why I have called you here. But Mírë is not the first elf you've had difficulties with-”

“I told her I was sorry!” The elf whispered fervently, voice rising slightly in distress. “But she grabbed me by the arm and I wasn't looking - it won't happen again so please just tell her I'm sorry!”

Misty gray eyes searched Fingon's face for some sort of clemency from the fate set before him.

“Please...don't send me away...”

Fingon worried at his lower lip, holding his words for a moment longer. If it had just been a misunderstanding he could afford to give the benefit of the doubt. But Mírë had come to him nearly hysterical. She was veritably shrieking that Rossthôn had thrown her into a wall and she swore to any who would listen that he had _growled_ at her - that he had snarled like some feral beast. Fingon of course cooly reminded the harpist that she had in fact been warned against touching any who had been rescued from Bauglir's grasp without their permission or knowledge and that her lord would not hold them responsible for whatever befell anyone foolish enough to disobey that express command. Mirë remembered well enough. She had left his hall in a formidable wrath. And of course she had complained to any who would listen so that now intrigue echoed from every wall and darkened corridor of his fortress.

An elf should not escape the enemy to be assailed by his own kin.

“Rossthôn please. Give this a chance. There is a reason for me sending you to Himring; the lord there is in need of a Farrier - and a good one. I've trusted you with my own horses often enough and you're the best I have, and I only want to send him the best.”

Though the painful lump in the elf's throat had not faded he allowed himself a lengthy breath. With clear gray eyes set with resolve he knew that Fingon meant to send him no matter what he might say. Resignation telegraphed in the sag of his muscles the elf nodded.

“Of course my Lord.”

“Rossthôn.” Fingon's voice was strong again now, yet filled with a deep compassion that was a little unnerving to one so used to heartless commands. “You have a choice in this. Once your task is done if you truly wish to return to Dor Lómin then you may and I will welcome you as I always have. If you choose to stay in Himring I will abide that decision as well and know that you are well cared for. Either staying or returning - it is for you alone to decide. Do you understand?”

With a slow nod that seemed to satisfy his lord the elf at last took his leave. Thus it was with great trepidation that he at long last came to the halls of Himring.

He'd been speechless upon first sight of the citadel towering nearly a half mile above a frozen plain bearing no plant larger than sparse brush hardly fit to cover a hare. Resting between the sawtooth peaks of two legendary ranges, upon a gently hilled expanse that stretched farther north than one could see, rose a basaltic monolith from the low valley floor. It towered into the heavens, the flat crown wreathed in snow that glimmered along it's flanks for a long way before trailing off, leaving jagged and bare volcanic rock below it that slowly faded into the monotonous green-brown of arctic vegetation. As he rode around the curve of the mountains to his left and entered the plain a blast of wind nearly knocked him from his horse - the gale screaming down from the cursed north through the gap between the two mountain ranges. The mare bucked and whinnied and it was only by walking in front of her with harness in hand that after a long day of hard toil the elf was able to make it at last to the foot of what the first guard he met affectionately called 'the hill'.

Staring up at the basaltic column rising up through even the clouds he couldn't help but smile.

 Winding up the steep stair as it crawled along the jagged slopes of what the elf could now veritably call a mountain; he focused on the guard in front of him instead of on the certainly fatal fall awaiting him if he slipped. For the length of their time on the stair they walked in a silence that persisted even as they crested the tall peak and came to a massive hall carved from living stone and polished so that it gleamed a deep olivine black in the fickle light that passed through swirling clouds above. Yet for all it's austere and dark beauty the newly freed Ñoldor felt a weight lift from him. Out of the howling winter wind and into closed warm halls they walked; the guard and him now side by side. Though she spoke to him little - making no attempt at the banal small talk that he had endured at nearly every turn in Dor Lómin - he knew much about her already. Dark leather armor was heavily embossed with delicate tracery capturing the liveliness caribou on the run and this was worn over a thick woolen tunic and breeches of the richest deep blue that in the torchlit corridor seemed nearly black. Soft but sturdy boots were in good condition despite the network of scratches in the surface. An elf of the forests and woods who relied on stealth and the cover of deep night for whatever task she was set to. Upon what had surely once been an almost breathtakingly gentle face were thin arching scars that seemed deliberately set into the deep complexion - shining a clean peach against the burnished copper skin. The farrier thus knew that she had been a thrall once as well - and a nicely kept one. Perhaps she had belonged to one of the corrupted maia's in Morgoths service, pampered like a pet so long as she behaved. But he had no desire to inquire about her injurious past and she did not seem inclined to divulge it to him at any rate.

Deeper in the halls the elf noticed that the walls around him were becoming gradually wider and polished to a smoother and higher sheen. Then all at once they descended a small stair and entered a gently sloping corridor that traveled a good way both left and right. The left led downward while the right ascended. Now it was that the traveler first began to hear signs of life of Himring; for as they ascended by the much enlarged hall - one that appeared to be a remnant of a conduit of molten rock that had coursed through the extinct volcano in ancient days - he could hear bits of conversation echoing from side corridors. In the air was heavy with the spiced aroma of crackling wood and hot drinks indicative of the season though not once did the guest see an arrangement of pine or holly or any other festive garland on either wall or lintel.

As they neared what he could sense to be a large hall the elf felt his apprehension return a hundredfold and he used what reserves of will he possessed to keep his face impassive and his stride strong. The guard spared him only the quickest glance before she entered in through the wide-flung oaken doors.

Milling on the edges of the hall between columns of smooth hewn basalt were a variety of elves in all shapes and sizes, conditions and ages. Silvans, Sindar, Noldor, Laiquendi, Avari - nearly all of elfdom represented within the confines of the great hall. Yet for all the elves present it was surprisingly quiet - only the barest snatches of conversation could be heard and to his momentary shock the farrier realized that much of this was spoken in strangely rolling speech that often he had heard echoing through darker halls; though it was changed and it's harsher aspects carefully blunted and dulled.

It was with a lurching sense of dismay that the elf watched his guard give a curt bow to the throne and turn away, heading back to her post and leaving him terribly exposed and alone before the court. Head up and back straight, the elf unwaveringly met the gaze of the noble sitting before him.

For the lord of Himring was not easily confused with any other elf. Legends of the firstborn of Fëanor preceded him wherever he might go and yet as prepared as the newcomer thought he was all rumors had fallen utterly short of what he now beheld. Maedhros' life was written in the fine silken embroidery at this collar and etched in stark jagged lines upon the flesh of his handsome face. It called out his pedigree in the sheer bulk of a well formed and muscular body and whispered it through the somewhat disheveled state of coppery hair slowly regrowing from the slaves short-crop. Upon his right shoulder was a short-cape emblazoned with his crest and from the lay of the fabric the elf knew there could be nothing but air beneath the heavy velvet folds.

Yet for all his regality there was a strange, approachable nature to Maedhros that calmed the raw nerves of the elf before him, soothing his restless nature into a docility he hadn't known for a long time. He was no pretentious lord bedecked in jewels upon an uplifted throne, nor was he a naive warrior out to carve a name for himself from the enemies hide. To the newcomer the elf before him could be nothing less than a king among those for whom there was no respite in the world.

All at once standing in the presence of the once King of the Noldor, amid the silent throng of elves with their strong scarred limbs and quick glowing eyes the farrier felt horribly out of place. Here he stood alone swaddled in finery gifted to him in Dor Lómin. The clothes felt to him foreign - the clinging warmth of soft wool and the fake stiffness of tightly embroidered brocade. His own bearing was little better, possessed of a modest politeness that was galling.

As Maedhros spoke for the first time he was surprised by how such strange it was that a soft voice could resonate with a power befitting the foundations of the earth.

“You are the farrier from Dor Lómin?”

The elf nodded and gave a respectful bow. “Yes my Lord.”

Among the crowd there were a few soft murmurs and the elf felt his ears flush. But Maedhros only gave a soft smile through scarred lips and replied. “Very well. But there is no need for formalities here. You may call me Maitimo.”

The elf nodded. “Of course my- Maitimo.”

The copper-haired lords eyes were understanding. “And you are?”

For a moment a strange word came to the elfs tongue but his lips refused to part for it. For a moment he stood in contemplative muteness amid the silent hall. Then he breathed deep of the warm cavern air filled with the scent of firewood and mulled wine and echoing with hushed movements and whispers in a forbidden tongue and all at once he gave a gentle, relieved laugh.

“My name is Rácathánë.”

With an brow quirked in amusement Maitimo nodded. “Rácathánë. Wolf-pine. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here.”

Rácathánë nodded appreciatively as the elf-lord rose from his seat and crossed the hall with a slow steady gait. Around them the crowd began to disperse, their conversations drifting away through winding caverns. Beside the smaller elf Maitimo loomed like some benevolent mountain that had decided to rise and stretch it's legs a bit.

“I'll show you around. That is, after you've changed.”

“Changed?” Rácathánë questioned.

“You don't want to?”

The farrier gave a deep heaving sigh of relief that ended with a chuckle.

“More than _anything_ if you don't mind.”

Maitimo's laughter echoed warmly down the basalt halls.

 


	6. Sharp as the Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon comes to terms with Maedhros' new reality after Thangorodrim as darker aspects of his old friend are painfully revealed.

Fingon woke to the sudden chill of his room.

Blearily he peered into the darkness, an unspoken question hovering on his lips as he peeled back the invitingly warm coverlets. The place beside him was empty. Gritting his teeth against both cold and too familiar apprehension he reluctantly slipped from his bed and after throughly swaddling himself in the warmest thing on hand he walked across the cool stone floors to the open window. His gray eyes searched the horizon.

_There_ , in a clearing not too far from the fortress he saw a dark spot on the white snow, moving fast. Now and then the shadow would pause - body stiff and head raised toward the wind. Then it moved on.

Fingon gave a heavy sigh, the white mist of his breath curling into the air to disperse on the biting wind. “What are you after tonight?”

Drawing the pelt closer around himself he at last shuttered the window. He hated these 'night hunts'. More than he could possibly say. The thought that Maedhros was out there in the cold of Himrings winter, _alone_ , tore at him in ways there were no words for. His sudden disappearances sometimes lasted for days as he tracked some creature all over the wild.

The equally abrupt arrival- never empty-handed - always caught Fingon by surprise. Some elves kept dogs or cats that would bring back 'gifts'. Fingon had Maedhros. Instead of mice or birds or the occasional young hare it would be an elk or a stockpile of orc weaponry. He never knew what Maedhros might return with. Hiding the forays had proven impossible. Too many ears and eyes noticed the comings and goings of the infamous line of Finwë, but so far they thought their lord was simply an avid hunter of Orome's mind. Often gifts of fine swords inlaid with ivory or horn or perhaps a slingshot of quality leather for smaller game delicately embossed would be offered. Once or twice Maedhros had received a specialized javelin with a throwing hook; allowing it to be used single-handed. He'd taken quite readily to the weapon and was already quite proficient with it.

Yet it, like all the others, sat unused on the hunt. Merely gathering dust in the armory.

Fingon glanced to the mantle, eyes resting on the spot between a glass timepiece and a fine porcelain bust where normally a small but specially made dagger would have rested. At the sight of the bare spot the tension in his face eased. So Maedhros hadn't gone unarmed this time at least. Idly he fingered at the pelt he had thrown over his shoulders, surprisingly soft for warg fur. It had been that very pelt that had caused him to commission the dagger in the first place.

 

After five days. Five agonizing, gut-wrenching days the copper-haired noble had come limping home, his face bright and jubilant - the very face of self-satisfaction. His body had been a bloody mess. Gashes from the wargs teeth wept from every limb, deep bruises bloomed in sickly shades of yellow and purple beneath a smear of blood, dirt, and the black ichor of the beast slung over Maedhros' left shoulder and what little hair he kept was matted and tangled.

Fingon had desperately thought of every excuse possible to convince Maedhros to stop but eventually he had given in. It was something he couldn't understand, that he wasn't _capable_ of understanding. It was just one more new, wild aspect of his old lover that he had no choice but to accept without hope of change.

So one winter night not so long ago Fingon taken Maedhros aside and with baited breathe given him a small gift. The look on Maedhros' face had been incredulous, the item being wrapped in fine embroidered silk. But when Maedhros at last peeled the fine cloth back to reveal a simple, yet devastatingly effective weapon his eyes took on a sheen of life that Fingon hadn't seen in a long, long time.

The dark iron only gave fitful reflections of the bright lantern-light, the surface on top textured to disperse any ambient glow for the purpose of stealth. it was little more than thick bar to which two wickedly large looking hooks had been affixed on either side with a guard above to protect the hand from injury. Recurved blades that were razor sharp and so thick that even a struggling elk wouldn't have been able to bend them were the items saving grace. It was a weapon designed only to slash through what was before it, to bury deep into hardened flesh until it anchored on the bone. It was unadorned, altogether unlovely and utterly without mercy and Fingons stomach churned at the sight of it as he thought of what violence might be wrought with it in the hands of an elf as strong as Maedhros.

Yet..at long last when Maedhros raised his head, eyes filled with clear appreciation instead of the wild swirl of emotions that so often clouded them, he whispered; “Thank You.”

Fingon released his long held breath. “I hope you'll use it.”

And while Fingons heart has at first swelled with relief at those words, the fell light that sparked in his lovers eyes and the cruelly rough growl with which Maedhros voice answered in his voice was nearly enough to break it...

“I _will_.”

 


	7. Arta : Noble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon comes to terms with his feelings and confides them to an unusual confidant.

Fingon never thought there would be a day when he was jealous of a _horse._

They had set their camp for the night, the sounds of evening industry filtering above the persistent bubbling of a nearby creek that meandered just beyond the furthest tents, providing them with both fresh water and the ever present calls of high pitched crickets and low rumbling frogs. By the light of the full moon Fingon could make out a tall avian shape set on long thin legs that stood without movement or sound, partially obscured by tall rushes. The crane did not even acknowledge his presence. Fireflies flickered in bursts like the twinkling of golden-green stars amid the cool humidity of the darkened tree-line and he watched them for a moment before continuing on.

He passed along a row of tents leading up a short slope to a small rise just at the edge of the forest clearing, each one in various states of completeness. Here and there a lantern set the makeshift homes aglow with gentle golden luminescence that exuded warmth and modest comfort.

But as he approached the largest tent for their evening meeting he noted the parties horses that were tied up nearby.

Ears swiveled to and fro. Some nibbled contentedly at the grass while others simply stared into the night or dozed lightly where they stood. As he passed the row by one or two stuck their noses out, taking a quick whiff and then pulling away, satisfied. They were all much the same, more or less. Crests and seals were emblazoned upon bridles bedecked with tassels, cords, ribbons, and set with precious stones or perhaps embroidered in cotton or silk. The myriad colors of the various houses of the Edain and Elves could be seen peeking from beneath ornate saddles embossed with the glyphs and sigils of those they belonged to. The horses themselves were impeccable. Glossy coated with manes trimmed or braided or allowed to fall freely about them. They stood the picture of bored perfection and Fingon smiled. The meeting wouldn't be more than a half-hour long, they'd be headed home soon enough.

Though as his eyes passed over a few of the edains mounts he winced slightly at the marks on their toned flanks - the elves themselves had never taken to branding their horses and for the life of him even though Fingon understood why men chose to set a mark in their skins he couldn't help feeling it was an act more worthy of the enemy than of free peoples.

But as he continued up the line he finally caught sight of a very familiar stallion. Arta would have stood out among the others regardless any regalia. This horse was larger than the others with a strong, powerful body held regally with all the nobility for a mount of kings. In the moonlight his coat gleamed midnight blue amid the black of night and if he had stood perfectly still one might not have seen him, if not for the glow of nearby torches. A long dark mane cascaded across his muscular neck, tossed now and then as the stallion shook his head. Well feathered limbs moved lazily as the horse shifted, but in bright torchlight a hint of the whitish gleam of old scars could be seen just above the knees. From a distance the horse appeared to be a solid wall of black, but standing just a few feet away Fingon could clearly see the thin crossing white lines on neck and flank alike.

Arta regarded him passively, his tail flicking a moment at some airborne irritant before falling still again. His head was held high with ears pricked in Fingons direction in hopeful anticipation. Fingon smiled at the horse, his eyes drawn to the only adornment it wore. Beautifully embroidered and embossed a leather band decorated with gold and ruby squares was draped loosely around Arta's neck. The band was crowned with a central pendant bearing an emblazoned crest of Maedhros with the star of Fëanor at it's center. No bridle or saddle, no tether to hold him in place. Whereas the other horses were fully tacked with gear Arta looked positively bare, wearing only a 'necklace' to cover himself.

Fingon felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth as he approached.

He _wouldn't have it any other way._

“ _Take it off.”_

After Maedhros' rescue from the Thangorodrim the first time they had needed to travel when he was actually strong enough to ride alone they had brought the elf-lord a horse and those had been his first words.

Maedhros had absolutely refused to mount until a horse willing and able to take a rider without tack was found and not once since the day of his return had Fingon ever seen him use more than a loose band and kind words. The stablemasters had thought him absolutely crazy and it was true he'd had no shortage of misadventures - some more harrowing than others - while riding bridle-less and bareback all over Beleriand.

That had come to an end with Arta.

Fingon patted the horse's neck affectionately. “I hope you're taking good care of him. I'll _know_ it if you don't and you'll never hear the end of it!”

The horse snuffled at his hair, teasing at the gold-threaded braids. _He_ had also been an escapee.

A wide patrol had found him among a group of orcs driving horses to the dark fortress. The main group had pulled far ahead with all haste; but a second group lagged behind, drawing the attention of the elves who hunted them. They'd slaughtered the servants of Morgoth and amid the carnage they had found silver, gold, jewels set into coronets and bracelets of dwarvish beauty. Elvish silks with stitching finer than any hand of men could make were piled carelessly in rude sacks. Amid all this wealth they found the stallion; fettered so tightly he could go no faster than a walk, his head and neck reigned back with cutting brutality - all the better to keep him from resisting. A tribute to a dark lord stolen from the prized herds of those who opposed him.

As Fingon stroked the stallions neck - subtly passing him a bribe of sugar for the privilege - gentle fingers traced over the scars left behind by that hellish ordeal.

Unworkable, indomitable, and even near delirium and death he fought like a demon the moment those fetters were broken. Surely if those foul bonds had failed while the orcs were still around him there would have been a massacre before the beasts of Morgoth could have gotten the horse back under control. It was all the elves could do to keep him in a pen; hoping one day the fire inside of him would grow chill. But kicks, snorts, screams of fury and the threat of flying hooves and snapping teeth were all they received.

Maedhros alone got through to him, the only one who _understood._

After that Fingon would watch; rider and horse - one force to be reckoned with. For Arta answered only to Maedhros and Maedhros would suffer no one, with the exception of Fingon, to even approach the black stallion. Those who did were met with a sharp rebuff of well aimed hooves and mocking laughter. It seemed that there was a special bond between them, one deeper than words. A sense of comfort, of relief, of mutual understanding and most importantly _trust_. They _trusted_ one another.

As Fingon idly braided a few strands of the stallions dark mane he tried to relinquish his own bitterness.

Maedhros _had_ trusted him. And he _had_ understood Maedhros. But now... He knew they couldn't go back. They could only go forward - and the path that lay ahead now was nothing like the one that had been taken from them. They could have been happy, secure, together.

With a heavy sigh Fingon finished the braid and after a moment of thought removed a small golden clasp from his hair and secured it to the dark hair, watching it for a moment as it glimmered beside a large chocolate brown eye. Arta swiveled turned his head, causing the charm to glitter in the torchlight.

“You take care of him okay?”

As he patted the horses neck one last time Arta turned his head toward Fingon. The elf thought he saw understanding in those deep black eyes. Stepping heavily back onto the trail Fingon at last lifted the coarse roughspun fabric of the tent and looked over those assembled. There was a sudden clamor from elves and men as the group all hastily began to rise but with a wave of his hand Fingon halted them.

“Forgo the formalities - business is far more important now.” The King of the Noldor smiled softly.

“You're late.” A cheekily familiar voice teased him, it's owner sitting directly across from him on a plush cushion. Maedhros absently brushed a fallen strand of copper hair back from his face and the slightest of smiles passed over his lips. But his eyes seemed distant and his face devoid of any deep emotion.

“Sorry.” Fingon whispered, taking his appointed seat next to him even as a steward approached with wine.

“So,” Maedhros continued, his voice soft but strong as he spoke to those assembled with the cadence of a well rehearsed speech as he laid forth his plan. “Midsummer will be the day. I'll start by drawing Morgoths forces into the Anfauglith -”

 


	8. Orenáro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Fëanor Curufinwë and his final battle with Morgoth.

The host was far behind, the enemy close ahead and still he raced on. The High King had crossed the unforgiving sea. He had watched helpless as Osse's rage swept countless hosts of his people to Ulmo's depths. He had drawn his own sword against kin. He had been the first of the Elves to kill another.

He was deposed, exiled, abandoned by those who had come to Arda solely for the protection of the Elves - and watched as the Powers who hailed themselves the champions of the Children of Ilúvater failed them time and time again. For had the Valar not failed them when the Elves first woke? In the dark groping days in Cuiviénen was it not the dark enemy that had found them first and twisted them into horrors unrecognizable and enslaved and killed the rest as pleased him? And he had now slain elves even in the very home of the Valar who were many in number and power; yet they could do so little against only one. And yet even with this act of war upon their doorstep still they lingered in the dark and pined for what was lost - without seeking to avenge it.

Fëanor blazed with anger. For how could the Valar - these 'great powers' be so weak as to allow evil to escape them? Or so blind as to set it loose once captured? Their status meant nothing if they were little better than the incarnate children who followed them - nay worse. For they were part of Ilúvater himself and ageless and undying. They who claimed to be wise had thus far shown little foresight.

Fëanor knew in his heart that Vala would never truly defeat Vala.

The hooves of his great horse pounded in the dust of an unfamiliar land far from the place of his birth, the strength of it's stride carrying it far ahead of the valiant host who called out in vain for their King to halt. The pale stars winked up above - the only illumination in a twilight world filled with darkness and steeped in decay. Shadows loomed on every side, their forms shifting with the speed of his ride and though his horse snorted and dodged every imaginary beast Fëanor would not let it shy away from the road ahead.

King he was now, though he had no crown, no throne. And a strange bitter pain stung at his chest and wrenched his very spirit - for he was the first in Valinor to have felt the terrible loss of ones parent, just as his father had been the first to feel the terrible loss of ones love and his mother to feel the loss of her own life. Death ever stalked the house of Finwë - even from it's founding and in that land of immortality his house alone had been stricken - the Ñoldor's happiness alone had been tarnished. And for what reason had this happened? Mandos had declared that the Ñoldor would be cursed by his rebellion - but was he not _already_ cursed? Had he not been born into a curse in paradise?

Thoughts raged in his head as he rode. The guard that followed him was few in number as they approached the great plains before Angband; the newly reclaimed stronghold of his greatest and most hated foe. The foe that _should_ have been defeated if not for the folly of the Valar.

And darkness grew deeper even as he rode, and crowded unrelenting around him. Then out of the darkness grew orange flame and terrible fumes and towering dread forms - winged and bearing lashes, roaring with the bellowing of volcanic cries. Fëanor for all his strong will felt a moment of true fear, for he had never before seen such horrible creatures. The Valarauko - maiar of dark flame who had sworn allegiance to Morgoth in days of old and had taken unto themselves dread forms. Yet despite himself Fëanor would not yield and flew headlong into the fray.

History tells of this. He darted to and fro, quick as light, sword flashing in the dark like a peal of lightning from within a thundercloud so that even Balrogs fell slain before him. For he was furious and in his wrath his eyes burned and his sword hewed whatever it touched - the first edged sword forged in Valinor and one wrought by his hand alone. It is told of how Gothmog, Chief of Balrogs and a masterful captain in Morgoths service came forward to do battle with Fëanor, son of Finwë - and taker of the Oath of Doom.

Legend tells of his death. Yet, legend falls short.

There Fëanor stood alone in the darkness. His sword shone in the dark clouds of dust and ash and smoke that issued forth from the infernal beasts of the dark flames. Yet he showed no fear and his eyes burned brighter still with righteous anger. And Gothmog issued forth to avenge the deaths of his subordinates - for Fëanor had hewn many already and would continue to fell them as if they were trees if left unchallenged. And that beast was clad all in iron that blazed with the heat of his fire, and from him dripped tar and oil that set all it seeped onto aflame. His feet were as the talons of a great bird yet he was horned on his head and had teeth like a wolf - but all this was made of fire and stone so that he had a most dreadful countenance.

With whip and sword and flame Gothmog assailed him, but to no end for he could not sway his foe or quail him. Fëanor swung mightily, beating the beast back towards the black gates - his golden cloak was torn and fluttered like a banner in the hot wind. His unadorned silken clothes which he had once worn not so long ago in the pristine sanctuary of Tirion were now ripped and scorched.

Fëanor felt the weight of his wounds. His arms, legs, back and chest which had never suffered more than a shallow scratch in life were now marred with deeply weeping red scars that ran like rivers upon him. His dark hair was unbound and flew wildly about him as he dodged whip and sword. Dirt and ash and black smoke covered the King of the Ñoldor in a dusky film. Yet his spirit blazed brighter in the darkness that was ever growing.

Yet now hearken! For there is more to the tale that was first told and was known to none save Fëanor and the Balrogs with their Dark Master. For the light of Fëanor blazed so brightly in his wrath that it became a beacon across the land that even the dark clouds of the Balrogs could not conceal.

Now Morgoth had known of Fëanors arrival and a deep, dark curiosity overwhelmed him. He had expected pursuit - but from Vala, not Eldar. Yet the Valar he could still feel on the reaches of his mind across the wide sea, now hidden behind a veil of crushing storm. The Ñoldorin host was now at his door instead and this intrigued him greatly. From his black throne he heard news from Gothmogs men - that he had reached the invading elves and destroyed them utterly, yet even now was doing battle with one of Finwë's sons. And hearing this Morgoth rose from his iron throne and by secret ways left his dark halls. He would observe the death of Fëanor, so that his spirit may be gladdened by the sight.

On the plains before the dread prison of Angband Fëanor fought with all his might. He called on every spell of force he knew, every enchantment. Yet still he was locked in duel with Gothmog. So with what little remained of his failing strength he made a last, desperate charge. And though Fëanor was greatly wounded he found his enemy to be as well. Then he laughed out in rage and madness so great and with a bright power so blinding that his body seemed ablaze with light and his eyes glowed as hallowed stars. Fëanor seemed transformed into something more than a King of Elves. Upon seeing this Gothmog was deeply dismayed and to the astonishment and great horror of those twisted maiar assembled the greatest Balrog ever to live took one step - though only one - back in fear.

It was in that very moment that Darkness overtook the field of battle. None who were without could pierce the black clouds that now encircled those famous combatants and no longer hidden by the infernal darkness the eyes of Morgoth blazed with anger at his generals weakness. It was the malice in those fiery eyes that betrayed him, for Fëanor perceived his foe and cried out-

"Fiend in the night! Murderer and defiler! How long do you intend to slink like a thin wolf in the shadows, afraid to come into the light! Many of your beasts have I slain already - many more will I slay until you step forward! Will you keep me waiting long, coward?"

Then the Morgoth rose up in a fury never before seen and raced into the field of battle with the wild fury of a storm cloud shooting lightning and fire with footsteps cracking like thunder. He arrived clad in a form more great and terrible than any Morgoth had yet shown and one so dreadful that the maiar of flame around him fell back in terrible awe of their dark lord. Yet Fëanor set his blazing eyes on his chief foe and gripped his sword all the tighter.

"You who do not know honor, nor loyalty, nor friendship! Step forward that you may at the least know fear!"

Morgoth thundered with heavy steps, and he towered over the elf. With a growling as deep as the great roiling pits of the earth he spoke;

"Your folly is fatal to you - or have you forgotten the truth of my greatness; for I am a _Valar_ \- and I will suffer no mere plaything to challenge _me_!"

Thus began their duel. In the first Morgoth rose so large that Fëanor darted like a mouse before a giant. With all his rage Morgoth swung the mighty Grond, and where it tore the earth asunder geysers of fire and stone erupted towards the darkened heavens. Yet no matter how many great fissures into the earth were rent all his strokes missed. Yet; Fëanor himself struck true at the Vala's legs. Then Morgoth changed size again and came to just twice of his opponents stature. Now the battle was close and fierce. Fëanor's skill was unmatched in all Arda, for he had the best of all things. The tip of his blade found it's way many times between the plates of Iron armor that Morgoth wore. Yet in the end no blade made by men or elves could harm the Vala and Fëanors strikes were little more than scratches.

And Fëanor, already suffering dearly from his duel with Gothmog began to swoon and as such was caught in the Dark Lords iron fist. Fëanor's sword clattered to the cold stones before the dark fortress as he was lifted aloft by his throat. And with mocking words Morgoth bade all his servants bear witness to the death of Fëanor, son of Finwë - the fool who had challenged his dominion and majesty, for he meant to crush Fëanor's neck with his own hand - that he might better see his enemies death.

However; he had not such a strong grip yet - and Fëanor with his last strength offered yet more challenge. For he told a lie to the dark lord. Fëanor said to him-

"Foolish you are, master of lies. Arrogant fiend! For even now my faithful skirt around us to your fortress to take back the Silmarils you have stolen from us!"

Morgoth laughed with malice. Fearing not, he lay down his great mace and lifted his Iron helm. All beheld the true face of the abyssal Vala, for in those days he was terrible but not twisted as he later became - his hair was dark as the starless night, his eyes burned like the fires of the Thangorodrim. And set with honor upon his high brow was there a crown of Iron, and in it set three luminous stones that blazed with a holy light in the darkness. All of Morgoths foul servants turned away from their brilliance - yet Morgoth himself smiled, for now he could see more clearly the woe wrought on his foes face at the sight of his enemy tending his most prized creations.

"They are not in some hall but here Fëanor, son of Finwë if you have strength to take them! Yet you do not. Ever and always they shall rest upon my brow in my crown of domination long after the Ñoldor have been ground into dust; yea even unto the ending of the world! Think of this and perish in despair!"

Fëanor held his tongue a moment, but rallied his anger once more and replied with all the venom of his will. "You know not the future, nor can see it with your poor sight! If I must join my father in the halls of Mandos then so be it! Yet I will do so unyieldingly for my spirit and those of my kin shall ever rage against your dark designs, lord of thralls!"

Now, here was the first that Morgoth had ever heard that Mandos received the souls the elves who departed - for he had cared little to discover what became of their broken spirits once unhoused. Anger stirred more potent then in his heart; for he would rather see his enemy to oblivion, not return to the undying lands - as a mere spirit or no.

Morgoth turned all the cunning of his mind towards Fëanor now - for like all the Valar he had the power to speak without words into the depths of another mind. Long had he mastered such art to terrible effect among the thralls of Utumno and Angband and now he brought his will to bear against the King of the Ñoldor. Greatly did Fëanor struggle under the strength of his enemies magic - for Morgoth had no intention of allowing his spirit to return to the abode of the Valar whether dead or living, now he contrived to keep that fiery spirit locked forever out of their reach if only because he knew that Fëanor, though rebellious, was precious to them. Then Fëanor looked into Morgoths eyes and there saw all his dark plans laid bare through visions of his intent. So horrified by the sight he was that using the last of his strength Fëanor produced the last work of his hands.

For in the dark days after his father's murder Fëanor had become consumed with grief and vengeance that he took to his forge one final time. With the effort that had wrought the Silmarils did Fëanor turn to the forging of a sword. This he named Orenáro - Heartflame; for it was forged in the heat of his own spirit and locked deep within the chamber of his own heart.

This sword now he called forth - the blade he might use only once, ere he die. And with one final strike he drew a great cleft across Morgoths face from one ear to the other. The dark lord wailed with pain and agony that shook the mountains and a rage that caused the Thangorodrim to belch forth rivers of fire. And Morgoth - shamed and wounded before his host drew his sword which this time only he used and ran it through the King of the Ñoldor, slaying the son as he had his father. And releasing his grip he threw Fëanor to the ground in rage and retreated to Angband with the cry-

"Burn all - all to ash that you may find of the house of Finwë!"

And Gothmog rose up again to fulfill this dread order, yet as the flames leapt a cry of battle rose among them. For into the flames leapt seven sons - the sons of Fëanor, for when Morgoth had fled the field the deep black clouds had cleared and once again they could see their father before the Balrog host.

Fearful, the fire-demons retreated back into the black stronghold. For if such terror could be wrought by _one_ elf, what more could _seven_ alike do?

Taking hold of their father the sons fled away to the south.

Yet, as they passed under the trees of Middle Earth with only the stars as witness Fëanor knew his time was spent. Even the wounds from Gothmog would have slain him, and if not for that the sword of Morgoth would have done the same. But more, the sword Orenáro which hailed from his own bosom was never meant to be re-sheathed. It had withered and failed even as his life, for it was part of his own fiery spirit made hard as steel.

So he bade his children to halt at the edge of a dark wood and though they were loathe to halt they lay him in the soft sweetgrass. From this resting place Fëanor could see the glowing fires of Angband to the forbidding north and bitterness filled him. For there was no defeating that dark fortress with the strength of elves alone. Only Valar could truly defeat Valar. Yet those in Valinor had abandoned the war with Morgoth and left Middle Earth to his uncontested dominion.

Then he cursed Morgoth for the first time. "Craven! Master of slaves! Do not come forth from that worms hole you have carved for yourself! May you forever be tormented by the pain of elvish blades wherever they strike you - and may you suffer their agony ever-long in both body and spirit!"

So looking upon his seven sons he spoke, "Do not mourn for my passing, for I have done unto the enemy which the Valar themselves had not the heart to. I go now to my father, so weep not. Instead, you must hold true to the oath - for then even if you fall we may yet meet again across the sea. Yet if you forsake it there will be no reunion for us ever again. Do not fear death - but go boldly against the dark enemy and route him wherever he lurks."

Raising his clenched fist to the north he cried. "Blackheart! Pit-fiend and Traitorous! May all your plans be undone in the end and all your harvests barren! May you find no mercy among any living thing upon Arda, nor before the Valar if they come for you!"

Here he lie still a moment and spoke again to his sons.

"My body is broken, but I need it no longer."

For the last time he cursed Morgoth - with all his strength and will saying:

"May beauty and joy ever flee you, may you take the countenance of your black malice upon your face so that you are hideous to behold. May you know never again pleasure, or contentment, or satisfaction; be cursed! Cursed with everlasting pain, everlasting hunger, everlasting thirst, everlasting desire, everlasting fear until the breaking of the world!"

It is with this final curse that Fëanor's life ended. Quickly it was that his sons leapt back, for at the moment of death his spirit rose up in a great whirlpool of bright flame that consumed all his flesh even to the bone - no mound was raised for Fëanor, for not even ash was left behind. But a stave was raised on that spot though it now be lost below the waves of the cold sea.

Then his spirit felt the summons of Mandos and this time he obeyed. Fëanor's spirit took flight as a bird of flame over the sea.

Yet deep in the dark fortress Morgoth howled with rage and pain - for the curses laid upon him by Fëanor in his moments before death were potent and unrelenting. Thus knowing now the source of his agony Morgoth rose up again as a black cloud and faster than even the flight of the great eagles he raced across the sea in pursuit, a dread black beast so dark that not even the light from the Silmarils on his brow could escape, but was instead bent back into unending blackness.

Now he knew full that he had cheated himself in his greatest revenge, for in his rage he had slain Fëanor before his spirit could be bound and subdued. Morgoth would not now suffer the Noldo to return to the undying lands. His will against Fëanor's, now both un-housed Morgoth could destroy the elven Fëa and send him to oblivion. Such was his intent.

Yet from his high seat Manwë saw first a flash of winged flame, and then a shadow of black scales following. For a long moment he was in confusion, but then Mandos who was beside him spoke:

"And thus does the King return!"

Then Manwë knew that the spirit of Fëanor was come and in grave danger; for he guessed at Morgoths intent. With ancient words Manwë raised the winds into a great gale and he rose up the wall of Valinor with all his might, and into it Morgoth flew headlong and was thrown back by howling wind and storm - yet Fëanor passed through like a ray of light.

But as he passed the sea and spread his wings over the blessed land the tendrils of fate caught him at last and he was bound in heavy chains. So it was that Fëanor was pulled with iron strength into the halls of Mandos and the doors drew forever shut behind him. It is by the doom of Mandos that alone of the elves not Fëanor, nor his sons after shall leave those dark, gloomy halls so long as Arda remains. Only the righteous of the Eldar are gifted with a second life in Valinor. Though it is whispered amongst the Ñoldor in Valinor that when all the house of Fëanor are again gathered beneath the roof of Mandos that a trial shall be made of their crimes and the house's ultimate fate decided upon by Ilúvater himself.

And that may be, but it is a long wait yet.


	9. Mairon and Thuringwethil in Valinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a divergence from canon, 
> 
> The Silm has little to say of Mairon and Turingwethil. In the BOLT there's a curious reference to a pair of Valar who, unlike their peaceful constituents, take their delight in strife and warfare. These are Makar and Meássë. They alone of all the Valar craft their own house ( where the rest of the Valar utilize Aüle's skill ). Furthermore they are well known in the forging of weapons.  
> That the home is built of Iron and is placed close to Mandos ( which in this text is a region, not a hall ) is also telling. Last of all, they are cited thus; "-they loved the unbridled turmoils which Melko [Melkor] roused through the world."  
> Some extrapolations are mine (neither Meássë or Túringwethil were ever mentioned as being maia of Mandos for example). And though Makar and Meássë were Valar, here Mairon and Turingwethil are portrayed as maiar.
> 
> Later, they are dropped from the mythology but I believe they may have been the prototypes for Mairon and Túringwethil. Under that line of thought does this story occur.

When the last of the grand estates of the Valar had been crafted it came into the hearts of not a few among the Maia to have homes of their own. This was granted to them; and many chose to build their own places near the abodes of the Valar they served.

Mairon; however, did not. For loyalty he felt for Aüle but he also did not wish to be separated from Túringwethil. Nor did she will to be separated from him, for even before the Music of the Ainur they had often dwelt together in Ilúvaters halls and were accustomed to another's company - and she herself was in the service of Námo. So they discussed amongst themselves what should be done.

"You know that since we entered Ea that I have been sworn into the service of Námo." Túringwethil spoke. "For his spirit is very near to mine and of all the Valar he is most pleasing to me. Yet I know that you have aligned to Aüle and hold the forges to be precious. So then let us do this - that we may build our abode between the two and neither be further from our Lord than the other. And so Mairon went to Aüle and Túringwethil to Námo and both gave their blessing - saying "You may build where you please, for there is no place in restricted to you."

And so gathering any of the Maia who had not yet chosen lords; yet were fond of striving and dark things, they made for themselves a great hall.

Of this hall they were exceedingly proud.

Here it was that Túringwethil first saw the fluttering shapes of bats beneath the glowing starlight. And she saw them nest in hollows of the earth amidst snow-white stones and at once fell in love with them; though many others had little love for these creatures. For her part Yavanna was at once glad and bitter.

"For I love all the creatures of the world, yet some more and some less; for these creatures were created where my thoughts and Melkors met and my love for them is little. But I am glad that there is a protectress for them."

And Túringwethil was glad of them. But Mairon was fond of the great wolves that lurked amid the mountain passes and often would he roam among them in those early days. Many of the Ainur despaired of these two and held great dread for them. For it was not forgotten by any in Valinor that when discord had entered into Ilúvaters theme at the instigation of Melkor that of the Ainur who had attuned themselves to Melkors theme that Mairon and Túringwethil had sang loudest - and for this they were shunned among their kin.

But they were happy in their abode. And at night when the days training had ended and all weariness had faded and all hurts been salved they would sit in a great iron hall hung with shields and furs. And Mairon would sit in his seat with his sword, but Túringwethil kept nearby her spear, and the warriors in their hall would sing songs of the great battles they had fought and make promises of great deeds to come. There in the hall would they drink and eat and be merry and upon the morn they would rouse themselves again and clad in bright mail they would battle one another once more with a fury so great that none would suspect the warriors trading blows in the morning would drink together come the evening.

Now as it has been said before, that Túringwethil was a maia of Námo. Her task within the halls of Mandos, the fortress of Vé, that she tend to those residing within according to their Doom. Yet; only one there was in those earliest days before the come of the Children of Ilúvater - and that was Melkor after he was returned to Valinor bound in Angainor.

As for that event, Mairon himself had a part. for when it was decided to subdue Melkor for the sake of the coming of the Firstborn it was he himself who made for them their bright armor - for Aüle was busied with the task of creating a chain and fetters with which to hold the mightiest of Ainur ( and this was no small feat). The finest of armors he crafted, in silver and gold and studded with fine jems and wrought with great cunning and spells of strength and endurance.

And though Mairon was disheartened that Melkor should be constrained he was nonetheless happy to instruct the Valar in all manner of warfare - of which he and Túringwethil had great knowledge. Yet; she for her part was busy relaying messages among the Ainur.

Yet; for all their aid Mairon and Túringwethil went not when the Ainur left to make war with Melkor. But upon their victorious return they went with all others to the court that had been made before Taniquetil. Sat in a chair of silver Manwë presided over all and would hear any claims for or against Melkor that could be made - before the Doom of Melkor should be spoken.

And many voices were against Melkor on that day - for there were few among the Ainur who had not a grievance against him for some work destroyed. Chief among these were Aüle and Yavanna who lost much of their hard labor to the capricious nature of Melkor's malice.

And when all voices had died away Manwë asked:

"And who here might speak in defense of Melkor? For this is offered before judgment is passed."

And then it was that Mairon spoke up, though he himself had as of yet no great love for Melkor - yet he was displeased with the unceasing tranquility of Valinor.

In the end it was the for tree ages Melkor was doomed to be bound within Námo's halls as prisoner in the fortress of the Valar. Yet after he was to spend four ages as a servant in the house of Tulkas.

Now, while many among the Ainur thought this exceedingly merciful it seemed to Mairon to be most severe. For he spoke later -

"Did not Ilúvater tell them with his own words? That the beauty they would create is but in many cases magnified through the work of Melkor? Though his intent be malicious his works redound in the end to increase the glory of those he would slight. They all agreed to this end, yet how quickly they have forgotten. Yet they would have for us all a life of eternal quiet, of unending monotony without strife or glory. The thought itself is almost unbearable and enough to make one wish they had never come to Ea at all!"

But Túringwethil simply looked on silently, as was her wont, and kept her thoughts to herself. Yet; even she at length spoke and her voice was quiet.

"I fear now that Manwë for his wisdom does not truly know the hearts of others. For if I were to foresee the future even I could know that Melkor's servitude under Tulkas itself may be enough to drive him to madness - for I would not chance that Tulkas would be much in mind to treat him kindly or stay his hand in anger, and such treatment in the end will only serve to embitter one who already believes themselves wronged."

And Mairon much agreed with her and a sense of foreboding was in his heart. When such heavy thoughts became too much he at last went to Aüle and spoke to him; yet his master was most unsympathetic.

"It is a harsh thing yes, but in the end Melkor must be made to see how he has erred and thus endeavor to win back the favor of his kin."

And Mairon replied; "What kin will he consider any who would punish him so? For what has he done beyond the destructiveness of a child? Or has he raised a hand against the Ainur in threat before his capture at Utumno? Yet twice has he been struck and he alone among the Ainur has known the pain of a strike - for affronting his fellow Valar and destroying their works. Yet he has not harmed _them_. No, in fact the first violence of one Ainur toward another was first struck by Tulkas and without provocation save for the strong Valas anger. And for what cause? For though Ilúvater allowed Melkor's entry into Arda; knowing truly who Melkor is in his heart - yet He did not hinder him. But did Manwë not invoke Ilúvater as his reason for constraining Melkor; that Melkor may not hinder Iluvater's design? Yet how can that be if Ilúvater himself did not prevent his entry into this world - which means that Melkors actions then are part of Ilúvaters great plan. So will the Valar still accost him for this?"

And this Aüle could not answer - because for all his malice and destruction as of yet Melkor had not caused harm to another Ainur and the Children of Ilúvater were not yet born that they may be tormented by him. But he could not abide that a maia of his own service could speak on behalf of the abhorrent one, and so he commanded of Mairon.

"Be gone from my house or be still! For this is a matter dear to the hearts of all - that their works remain un-destroyed and that strife remain far from their homes. Twice already have you spoken for Melkor and alone at that. I will not suffer a third time."

And at this Mairon fell silent and went from the house of Aüle in fury. Even still, he was not ready to forgo his Lord yet, though he disagreed deeply with him at heart.


	10. Doom of the Silmarills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thought experiment: on the return of Maglor and the final guardianship of the silmarills.   
> A bit uncannonical but meh,

In the end, so it was, that Maglor having been persuaded returned once more to Aman.

Though he was still under the ban of the Ñoldor by a fate more powerful than the will of the Valar he came safely to the hither shore and was there taken into the custody of the Teleri; who returned him to the safe-keeping of the Valar in Valmar.

Before Taniquetil, within the Ring of Doom the Powers assembled a court to determine the fate of not only Maglor but those of the house of Finwë who were Oathtakers and who afterwards had journeyed to Middle Earth in pursuit of the Silmarilli.

Yet; before Manwë would allow judgement to be passed he implored Maglor to speak on his own behalf and on the behalf of his kin who - being consigned to the halls of Vé - could not be present.

And Maglor spoke thus:

"Eight there were who swore the Oath. There now remains only one among the living, for as we have said and as we have sworn we have pursued those who keep from us the Silmarills unto the ends of the earth or the ends of our lives - whichever be the shorter. And as well those assembled know we have called upon the Powers of Arda as well as the Greater Power beyond; even Ilúvater himself to hold us to this Oath and that failing to fulfil it we be cast into the eternal dark.

Yet; from the very start our cause was in vain - for have not the very powers we have sworn by to uphold the oath done all in their power to prevent it's fulfilment? For it is not beyond the powers to retrieve the Silmarils from where they now lie. And there is less to fear for them - for the Great Enemy has been cast from our midst and shut behind the Doors of Night. Still we Oathtakers did not ask for aid of any save each other; and had the Valar remained without moving their hand we would have felt less ill will toward them.

Yet the Valar HAVE moved their hand and in doing so have through either accident or intent made the completion of this oath impossible and have thus condemned those who took it to the eternal dark by their interference. This I would say then, that before you may pass judgment on those who swore the oath you must first convince us that you are indeed impartial and just Powers of the world - for we have as of yet little faith in your evenness or your benevolence yet only your anger and distance."

And Maglor continued:

"For we Oathtakers do not forget that it is you Valar who said we might leave, yet also you Valar who moved to stop us. We do not forget that it is you who failed to keep the great evil contained, yet you who abandoned us to that evil to fight it alone and without aid after allowing it to bring sorrow upon us. For we still do not believe you interfered out of obligation or mercy, but because Ilúvater himself ordained it and moved your inertia to action. And we Oathtakers hold you accountable for both your actions and inactions that have done wrong to us and for that reason our faith in you is little.

"Know then this: that though regret of what I have done lay heavy on my heart I do not ask the Valar for their forgiveness or their mercy for I sense that little they have ever had of these things for the Children of Ilúvater though they claim to love us much. Yet I am one of the children of Ilúvater - descended from those born of His thought alone. I would ask the council of Ilúvater then as to how to lay to rest the Oath once and for all - whether he is willing to declare the Oath void for the interference of the Powers by which it was sworn."

And many of the Eldar who had remained in Aman were incensed by his words, not least of all the Teleri and Sindar who had suffered greatly on account of the deeds of the Ñoldor. Still many of the Noldor who had returned felt the resonance of his words and were in agreement with him. Yet at last Manwë called for order. And taking long council with the thought of Ilúvater he fell silent.

When Ilúvaters thought was declared, it was this:

"For so have you sworn so must you fulfil. Had you sworn by the Valar alone the Oath would be negated for the Valar themselves have made it an impossible feat; one by whom an Oath - however terrible - is sworn is obliged to neither help nor hinder in it's fulfilment. For the actions of the Valar in this case would have condemned My Children to an unjust fate - and this is contrary to My will."

And at this the Valar themselves were abashed, for though they had not meant harm, harm to the Children of Ilúvater had yet come of their actions.

"Yet an Oath was sworn and one sworn by Ilúvater _cannot_ be broken. Yet much in the world that cannot be broken can still be bent. If any are willing to whom an Oath may be transferred - if the Oathtakers all as one shall agree to it - then a transfer of an Oath may be allowed as compensation for the interference of the Valar."

Much discourse there was then in Aman and in the halls of Mandos it echoed most loudly; for Fëanor was still stubborn at heart and would suffer none but Ñoldor and his kin at that to possess even one Silmaril. Yet in the end even he had grown weary of the Halls of Abiding and longed to return to his fathers house. And more than that even he had grown to fear that he and his sons would be banished to the everlasting dark. So to a transfer he agreed - yet on this condition; that the one chosen be a living descendant of the house of Finwë - so that at least in spirit the Oath may be fulfilled.

Now, because of the Oath and the actions taken on it's behalf there were few that remained - for Finwë had not yet come back to his kin and two of his sons and their sons as well were in Mandos. Even still, the terms were given back to the Valar who added yet one more of their own: that the bearer could not be among the Exiles, those who had first left Aman of their own free will. For Námo deemed ill fortune alone would come from it.

Of the house of Finwë now only there remained: Finarfin who had never left Aman and was now High King of the Ñoldor following the return of the exiles. And with Finarfin was his daughter Galadriel and Finrod Felagund. Yet Angrod and Aegnor had not yet returned from Mandos and Galadriel and Finrod had followed the Noldor into exile in Middle Earth. And Finarfin would not swear any oath by or for the Silmarils, least of all at the behest of Fëanor.

But Eärendil there was still; yet he was still bitter at heart for the losses he had suffered at Sirion and the Kinslaying there - and also for the sake of Elwing his wife who had endured both the Kinslaying at Sirion and of her home in Doriath; and both refused any part of the bargain of the Oathtakers.

Yet between them they had a son who was called Elrond the Half-elven; Lord of Rivendell before his journey to Aman. And he was married to Celebrian - daughter of Galadriel and grandaughter of Finarfin. And Celebrian first was asked; yet she declined. For while in Middle Earth she had suffered greatly and even in Aman she felt she had not the strength for such a task.

Long debate once again fell. It was a suggestion from an unlikely source that led to the appointment of a Warder of the Silmarils. After speaking among the elves in Aman and hearing their tales and learning of their long history; and upon thinking a long time in quiet to himself, a hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins came forth.

"I have only met Lord Elrond once before this voyage." Frodo spoke before the Aratar in the Ring of Doom. "Yet I trusted the truth he spoke, and his foresight he revealed and made a perilous journey for the sake of all Middle Earth to destroy the One Ring in Mt. Doom. I would not have taken the ring if I did not feel I could put my faith in his guidance. I have heard now here in Aman that he bore a ring of power himself; though I did not know that then. And that he fought against Sauron for many ages before I was born. It does not surprise me to learn he is descended from Kings - for he is very noble, so much as a Hobbit can tell in any case. But what I want to say is this; I do not have any great gift of forethought...but I do believe that if you entrust the Silmarils to Elrond that he will not fail you and will keep them safe from harm."

And Manwe said: "Are there any other would would bear witness to this claim as true?

And Galadriel, Lady of Light answered. "I will. For many long centuries Elrond ever fought the forces of the Dark One and has remained steadfast to the cause of Good. And though he bore a ring of power, in like to myself he also remained uncorrupted by it. His heart has ever remained good despite his ordeals and in him I would trust this task - perhaps him alone in all of Aman."

At Frodos plea and Galadriels reed the Valar were moved and would accept his appointment. Yet dissent, much like his recommendation, came from an unlikely source. For the stipulation was that ALL the takers of the Oath agree, and Fëanor was willing - with Elrond being descended from Finwë through his father Eärendil, son of Idril the daughter of Turgon. And Turgon who was the son of Fingolfin - son of Finwë and brother of Fëanor.

"Though it be bitter that the Warder of the Silmarils come from Fingolfin's line," Fëanor was heard to say. "At the least he is kin and not a stranger from the wild! For what that's worth."

So the dissent came not from Fëanor: it came from his sons Maglor and Maedhros - both of whom were loathe to see Elrond swear any oath to the Silmarils even if it meant facing the everlasting dark themselves. For in their short custody of Elrond and his brother Elros they had grown fond of the twins and would not see them harmed; for they were as younger brothers to them. In the end the two agreed, but only if they themselves were allowed to review the new oath before it was spoken and that all would agree that it be subject in part to their approval.

Thus it was decided among the Eldar and Ainur of Valinor to ask Elrond if he might take up the mantle of Keeper of the Silmarils. And so Elrond Half-elven took his oath before the Valar and the seat of Manwë. And the Valar he invoked and Ilúvater himself, yet not the everlasting dark. And this is what he swore in that hour.

"With all my strength, power and will I so swear to protect and ward the Silmarilli against all evil things that would possess or harm them. Yet I swear to protect them in mercy and benevolence, seeking always peace among the Children of Ilúvater but war against the legions of the dark. And I swear to use the light of the Silmarilli as a beacon of hope to all free peoples - that they may know light in dark times when all other lights fade. But I swear also that no malicious or evil thing will I do in the name of my Oath against my kin or those under the protection of the Valar. I swear to use it's holy light to mend what has been marred until such time as the Silmarils come to their doomed end. And when that doom comes I swear also to surrender them to their fate without quarrel."

And thus Elrond became the Warder of the Silmarils. Námo spoke then;

"And I foresee that _this_ oath will be upheld and that with it's utterance a great blow has been struck against the enemy." Though he would not say how this would come to be.

And Manwë took council with the mind of Ilúvater and spoke:

"So have you sworn, so must you uphold. And the Oath of Fëanor - terrible as it is - is considered now fulfilled and negated and those who swore are no longer bound by it. Yet for their actions it will be long ere they return to life."

For a time there was anxiety in Aman over this issue, for now that Elrond had taken charge of the Silmarilli they had been gathered from their long homes and brought once again to the Blessed Lands. There they indeed became a beacon for all to see. And Aülë with great joy built for them a tower of ivory white and polished gold and set upon it a bed of crystals that magnified the brilliance of the three so that they lit all the land with their shimmering radiance - for long had Valinor been dark since the Changing of the World; for the land of Aman had been removed and set apart from Middle Earth where the light of the Sun and Moon reigned and as such had grown into a land of peaceful twilight.

So a system was devised that the Silmarilli be covered for twelve hours, and uncovered for twelve - and thus the day would be counted.

And Elrond's estate was at the foot of the tower in a great rift and was a vision like to Imladrís - though in Aman it was without blemish, or stain, or blight but all was new and bright. It was there that Bilbo remained the rest of his long days, and Frodo and Sam thereafter until the ending of theirs in the great Valley.

Many elves who had lived in Lindon, Eregion, and Rivendell came to dwell in Elronds lands so that he was allotted a House to himself.

For as was said; he was descended from Kings and their kin. A crest for him and his house were made upon which were the three silmarilli together; yet framed with two wings on a field of blue - and the shape of the wings were in like to those seen on Elwë's charge - for descended from Elwë through Elwing Elrond was. Yet the wings were of white in memory of his mothers flight while bearing a jewel around her neck. And outside the edges were bordered in silver stars in honor of his name. And his sons Elladan and Elrohir when they at last crossed the sea following the passing of Arwen and Elessar were welcomed and given their homes within their fathers domain.

Thus the appointment of Elrond as Warden of the Silmarils was complete. And this as it turns out would be of immense importance in the final war against Melkor, and yet another great change in the history of Arda that came from a most unlikely source - a hobbit.

 


	11. An Eastern Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the sack of Eregion three Lords, three friends, part under moonlight.

Under a shrouded moon King Durin the Third shed bitter tears for all he had lost. Before him on the wide swath of new green grass just beyond the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dum his reddened eyes passed over the quiet company before him. Lithe figures garbed in enchanted black moved without sound as they finished their secret preparations. An arduous journey was ahead of them - one in which speed and darkness would be their only protection.

Clad in dark bridles a triumvirate of pale deer breathed in the high mountain air through flared nostrils, ears in perpetual motion and flashing silver in the night. Durin returned his gaze to the wain they were harnessed to, peering into the velvety dark padded cart. A scarred yet beautiful face shone under the fickle moon as the clouds parted; briefly brightening the land in pale blue light. The Dwarven kings hands felt thick and clumsy as they laid themselves against the bandaged chest. Tense patience was rewarded with the softest rise and fall beneath his trembling fingers.

Throat knotted tight, the King barely croaked out a whisper. “And where are you taking him?”

From the opening on the other side of the cart a set of eyes glowered in the darkness, two points of starlight that pierced all before it. The dark elf paused in his low chants for just a moment to answer, though his graceful hands continued their practiced motions; weaving spells of protection, obscurity, and healing. “Dor-gwainion. To the East beyond the River Running. Into the lands of our Eastern kin who are all but forgotten.”

Durin nodded. To a land ever-youthful where strong wine flowed and the ancient forests were strong under the stars.

“A good place?” Even to the King his voice sounded pleading. But Malgalad simply nodded.

“A good place. Secret and safe. I wish only our alliance could have achieved more.”

With a heavy heart Durin peered over the slumbering elves features one last time. Pale as the first blossoms of an alpine flower, with hair as dark as the depths of Khazad-dum. Had he ever seen the elf-lord look so frail?

No. Durin already knew that every breath was a miracle.

Tall shadows gathered around the wagon and Malgalads long soft litany ceased. “It is time then. While hope remains.”

His feet feeling as if they were shod twice-over in lead, Durin retreated from the wagons side, allowing them to close the wooden shutters. The driver took his place in the front and a set of archers at the rear - heavy cowls shading their faces from the moon. For this Durin was grateful. Abyssal dark eyes and runes marked in lines of knife and ink made the Avari a dreadful sight for those accustomed to their Western kin. Cloven hooves lightly danced upon the fragrant turf as the deer-riders mounted and awaited their liege. In silence the elven-king raised himself upon his stag and turning in his saddle he regarded the Dwarven King one last time.

“King Oropher has given us leave to use the Forest Road. From there we will make quick time to the Eastern Shore and our distant kin. I trust you to keep your eye on Líndorinand in my absence. My son is capable yet I fear for him in these dark times.”

“Under the Dwarves of Khazad-dum's watch the lands of Rhovanians elves will not fall.”

“I place my trust in you, old friend.” The elven-king smiled sadly. “I will return as fast as flight.”

In a flurry the host raced down the narrow road and into the night. For a moment the white of their deer-mounts flashed in the moonlight before the plunged under the eaves of the Greenwood and were swallowed by its darkness.

Through that long night the memory plagued him. For though he solemnly raised his glass for every toast to the fallen, and mournfully listened to every eulogy sung in the deep rumble of Dwarven tongues his mind bore the singular vision of a young lord of elves from Western shores slipping away into the dark night to lands of no return.

In his heart Durin the Third hoped that an Eastern road would bring the Lord of Eregion safely to peace at last.


End file.
